


Warm and Dry

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 00:15:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11001951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: Rediscovered story I didn't realize I had not posted here. My first Starsky/Hutch from 15 years ago.A young girl's suicide prompts a difficult discussion between Starsky and Hutch--and some new discoveries.





	Warm and Dry

Warm and Dry

By

Dawnwind

 

It had been the day from hell. Late January rains were falling steadily for the third day in a row, flooding out low lying areas, washing sewage out of the drains and graying the edges of the world. It was a cold that nestled deep in the bones of hunched over pedestrians scurrying home past gray walls, through gray streets under gray skies awash in misery.

They’d arrived too late, as they seemed to do far too often these days. Called to a large hacienda style estate, and let in by a flustered maid, they’d found the girl curled on her side in the bathroom. Her shockingly red blood clashed with the pretty carnation pink décor of the bathroom, too bright and too messy for the pristine little girliness of the room.

Slumped against the petal pink and white tile wall, she was obviously dead. Her mother held formerly Clorox white towels around her daughter’s wrists, but nothing had stopped the gushing crimson blood until the girl’s heart had ceased pumping.

"I’ll call it in."

Hutch heard his partner’s voice, catching only a glimpse of Starsky’s face before he’d bolted down the hall. Starsky’s skin so white he could have been the one exsanguinated on the floor.

"Mrs. Sheldon?" Hutch reached out tentatively to feel the girl’s carotid, knowing all the while that there’d be no reassuring pulse. He knelt beside her, blood immediately seeping into his new brown cords.

"Do something?" Mrs. Sheldon whispered, her expensive blue wool Chanel suit stained deep purple with gore. An elegant woman with a model’s fading beauty clutched the scarlet soaked towels tightly around her daughter’s wrists as if it would bring her back to life.

"I need to straighten her out to start CPR." Hutch tried to assure her, afraid to shatter her world with the terrible words-she’s dead.

"I have to hold these towels around her arms. To stop the bleeding," the woman protested weakly.

Hutch arranged the girl’s body, giving a quick rescue breath into her blue lipped mouth. He knew it was futile even to try life support--the pretty teenager’s body already felt cool, lifeless, but he had been trained to start, even when it looked hopeless. She’d been such a pretty girl in life, with a strong resemblance to her mother. Between given puffs of air into her cold lips he could see her homecoming portrait on the wall just outside the bathroom. She’d worn her long blond hair up in the mature looking sweep, her burgundy gown the exact color of the blood already drying on the fluffy pink floor mat.

Luckily, paramedics waded in, their shoes squishing wetly on the hall carpet leaving large muddy tracks. They’d taken over, starting chest compressions and oxygen before bundling the body onto a gurney for transport to a hospital where a doctor could pronounce her untimely death.

"Merietta," Mrs. Sheldon wailed as her child was taken away. 

Sheltering the sobbing mother in the curve of his arm, Hutch comforted her as best he could but his mind was on his partner. He knew all too well why Starsky had run. It was he Hutch felt the impulse to comfort, but he knew it couldn’t happen now. Finally, Mr. Sheldon appeared to fold his wife into an embrace, both giving way to their private grief.

Starsky was in the foyer, intent on shuttering his own thoughts from the events around him, all the while questioning the housekeeper. It was slow going with his non-existent Spanish and her fractured English, but the final story was of a girl left alone for the morning while the rest of the household had gone about their daily business. She hadn’t felt well and stayed home from high school. No one had checked in on her until her mother’s arrival back from a fundraiser for unwed mothers to find her daughter with her wrists slashed and a coat hanger where one was never meant to be.

* * * *

"Starsk?" Hutch was frightened by his friend’s unnatural pallor. Starsky drove with his fingers white knuckled on the steering wheel, total concentration on the wet almost invisible street. The rain was falling in straight sheets like a fake storm on a Hollywood sound stage. The red brake lights from the car directly in front of them were bleary and indistinct through the swish of the ineffectual windshield wipers. "You okay?"

"Peachy," Starsky answered flippantly, his jaw so tight his ears ached from the strain. "Just terrific." He couldn’t lose it right now, not in front of Hutch. It would scare him too much. Just had to hold it together for a little while longer.

He’d only gotten one glimpse of the blood speckled broken child, like some hideous Jackson Pollack painting, for God’s sake. It shouldn’t have unnerved him so, but it had been more than enough. Too much. "Sorry I ran."

"Starsky." Hutch didn’t need to forgive. He knew how close Starsky had been to ending his own life in a similar fashion, and they’d never told anyone else. After James Gunther had ordered assassins to murder David Starsky, he’d lain in the hospital for months recovering from the bullet wounds. The pain, the fears and the nightmares had taken a long time to dissipate. 

Even after Starsky had come home, with Hutch staying in his apartment to ease the transition, he hadn’t been able to shake the overwhelming terror of what had happened and what was to be. There had been a time no one was sure if Starsky would ever recover fully enough to return to the police force. Then there was one night when Hutch found Starsky shivering in the bathroom, painkillers scattered like confetti over the marble counter, crouched in a corner with his gun to his head.

The memory of Starsky holding his Beretta against his temple would remain with Hutch forever, but he couldn’t have recounted what he’d said to get Starsky to put the weapon down if his life depended on it. A moment in history preserved like a gem with a jagged flaw through the center. Or like a video that had picture but no sound. It didn’t matter much anyway, it was one memory of Starsky he’d rather not save.

Starsky had survived, grown stronger and rejoined his fellow officers in the job that defined him. He was a police detective. It was all he’d ever wanted to be since his father was gunned down in the line of duty when David was ten years old. And usually there was a heady rush of a job well done at the end of a watch, usually the satisfaction of a life saved. But not lately. It was all death and sadness without let up.

"It’ll get better, Starsk," Hutch said, trying for optimism. The problem was Starsky was usually the cheerleader, the one with a funny joke or some weird trivia to argue over. 

Starsky just drove silently, his shoulders hunched with a chill that the car’s heater could never warm.

They wrote up their report in silence, side by side. There wasn’t much to put in, really. A very sad, but horribly familiar tale. Hutch had done his half second. He usually did, to correct Starsky’s spelling and punctuation. Hitting the sticky period key with a final stab, Hutch nodded in satisfaction. "Ready to grab a burger at Huggy’s, Starsk?" he called out.

"Left just a minute ago, Hutchinson," Detective Myers supplied over his shoulder from the filing cabinet near the squadroom doors. "You just missed him. Didn’t he tell you he was leaving?"

He’d disappeared without a word. Here one moment, gone the next. Dread settled in Hutch’s chest with the ache of a bad cold. Where had Starsky gone?

Very glad they’d both driven their own cars that morning, Hutch pointed his LTD Ford in the direction of Starsky’s neighborhood. The low storm clouds covered any light the moon might have afforded, making it a very dark, bleak night. Traffic was horrendous, visibility so poor Hutch was nearly sideswiped once, and only escaped rear ending a blue VW bug by sheer luck.

No one was in evidence at Starsky’s little white house. Using the phone to call Huggy Bear’s Pits bar, he quickly learned his errant partner hadn’t washed up there either.

Oh, please, God, things hadn’t been that bad lately. One particularly--make that spectacularly--awful week couldn’t be the straw to break Starsky’s back. Please God, don’t let him do something stupid.

With no other destination in mind, Hutch returned home to his own apartment. For one jubilant moment, he latched onto a gleam of hope that he’d missed Starsky by going to his house while Starsky had crossed him on the road heading to Venice. But there was no one there when he unlocked the front door.

After switching on the light and furnace, he half-heartedly warmed up a pot of soup for supper. Looking down at himself, he belatedly realized he was still covered with Merietta’s blood. The house was chilly when he stripped off his brown cords and plaid shirt, raising goose bumps on his skin. He rapidly exchanged the work clothes for an U. of Minnesota sweatshirt and pants. The heated air was finally coming through the floor registers, warming his bare toes as he padded back into the kitchen to retrieve the boiling soup. It was too hot to eat.

_Please call, Starsky, please just tell me you’re okay._

After an hour passed, which made it three full hours since Starsky had taken a powder from headquarters, Hutch started to let his panic leak out. How delusional would his fellow officers think him if he called in an APB on David Starsky this soon? It wasn’t like there weren’t people who might be out to kill the detective. They’d had hundreds of death threats in their career. And it was plain treacherous out-the streets flooded and freeways slick with oil and water. He’d listened to the radio all news station while he was driving home, reports of downed power lines and a washed out bridge in one of the canyons. A call to a few nearby hospitals wouldn’t be too obsessive, would it?

His hand on the phone, Hutch paused, listened hard to the faint noise. With the rain and wind crashing on the windows, had he imagined that sound of footsteps on the stairs?

Another hesitant footfall. There was definitely someone coming up the inside staircase. Hutch pulled the door open so abruptly he almost jerked it off the hinges.

Starsky looked like a waif in some silent movie melodrama. His usually bouncy curls were plastered to his scalp , dripping water in eyes. He was soaked clear through, his clothes drenched with rain and face ashen.

"God, Starsky! What did you do?!" Hutch grabbed his friend’s arm, pushing him into the house, feeling the icy clamminess of Starsky’s skin. "You’re sopping wet, where were you?"

"I went for a walk," Starsky said defensively, shivering. He made a furtive attempt to push the hair out of his eyes.

"For three hours? In this weather?" Hutch thought his blood pressure was going to shoot right up through the top of his head like a gushing fountain.

"I just came here to dry off. If you’re gonna be that way, I’ll leave," Starsky retorted, his teeth chattering so violently he had to stop halfway through the sentence to regroup. This wasn’t going well, Hutch was going to hound him, ask him why he’d walked like an ass in the pouring rain, and to be truthful, he had no real answer.

"Don’t go, don’t go, I was just worried." Hutch hustled him into the bathroom, starting to tug at his wet flannel shirt. "Where’s your jacket?"

"I guess I left it in the car," Starsky muttered, dripping onto the linoleum floor.

‘It’s January! Haven’t you got any sense…?"

"Hutch, you sound like an ol’woman," Starsky griped, "Leave me alone, I can do this. I j-just need to warm up an’ then I’ll leave."

"You’re freezing." Hutch ignored him. Having divested him of his top shirt, he went to work on the Henley and long john shirt below.

"Hutch! I can get undressed by myself!" Starsky shucked off both shirts together while Hutch pulled a green towel off the rack and wrapped it around his shoulders. 

Rubbing the soft fabric briskly against Starsky’s goose pimpled arms, Hutch was gratified to see a little color returning to his face. 

Starsky shuddered, sucking in air, Hutch’s hand like a hot water bottle on his chilled skin. He took a startled step backwards, almost falling over the toilet in the confined space.

""Hey, y’all right?" Hutch grabbed him by the upper arm, righting him.

"I can get undressed by myself, okay?" Starsky snapped, unsettled by the sudden rush of feeling that slammed through him from Hutch’s touch. That didn’t usually happen. He struggled ineffectually with his pants, but the wet jeans were hard to remove, especially with the rapid influx of blood he was experiencing in his groin.

"Starsky, I’ve seen you naked before, just pull your pants off and jump in the shower." Hutch turned on the water, growing irritated at Starsky’s unusual bad humor. He grinned at the unexpected sight when the blue jeans were finally around the dark haired man’s ankles. "Got a bone to pick with me, Starsk?" he quipped, completely unprepared for the blush that spread across Starsky’s face and bare torso.

"Can I shower alone?" Starsky pulled the towel around his hips before stepping into the stall and shutting the door.

"I’ll leave a robe for you on the john," Hutch called, still amused. Although Starsky was no prude, and had had his share of sexual encounters, Hutch was by far the more experienced. He’d long stifled his feelings for Starsky, afraid that admitting them would destroy the close friendship they shared. Starsky had never given him any indication that he was at all interested in a more intimate relationship, so Hutch had never brought the subject up. What it Starsky’s interests had changed? Or had the rapid transition from cold to warmth just given him a little erection? Make that one heck of an erection. Hutch could feel his own cock responding just thinking about it.

Laying out the thick brown robe, Hutch snuck a peek at Starsky’s outline through the steamy shower door. Yeah, he wouldn’t mind at all if Starsky were ready for a change in direction. The question was, was he brave enough to broach the subject? What if he was mistaken and Starsky was disgusted by the idea?

Busying himself with the preparations for a pot of tea, Hutch debated the pros and cons of opening that particular door. He’d never considered himself anything but heterosexual, and he by far preferred a woman in his bed, but there had been, mostly in his college years, the occasional man, too. Starsky wasn’t just any man, he was a friend, partner, his soul’s twin, with whom Hutch had shared such a close relationship he sometimes forgot where one of them began and the other ended. It seemed almost logical that they should take it one step further.

His desire for his partner had come gradually, surprising him with the force of need one day when he’d been convinced that Starsky had been shot by a fleeing assailant, only to discover that he’d tripped at the same moment the shot was fired. His urge to swing Starsky into a relieved bear hug was only mitigated by the size of the hard-on he was trying to hide.

Starsky stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in the bulky robe, his shoulders hunched and face unreadable.

"Still cold?" Hutch asked lightly, "I’ve got some soup and hot tea."

"Sounds like what my Mom’d bring me when I had the flu."

"Well, I wouldn’t want to be mistaken for your mother." Hutch threw up his hands, "But I don’t think Round Table delivers on a night like this."

Sitting cross-legged on the couch Starsky accepted a cup of tea, blowing across the amber surface to cool off the liquid.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Hutch sat on the other end of the sofa, giving Starsky his space but also maintaining a safe distance to keep his hormones at bay.

"I dunno what happened, Hutch." Starsky took a sip, burning his tongue. "I couldn’t…I couldn’t even look at that girl." His fingers holding the cup trembled, so he set the tea down on the coffee table, tucking his hands up under his arms. "Shit. I acted like a rookie on my first day."

"Starsky, it was only four months ago that…" Hutch reached across the space between them, kneading the tense muscles on Starsky’s right shoulder. 

Shifting around, Starsky scooted back enough to give Hutch access to both shoulders, but also turning his face away. Hutch wanted to see what was in those dark blue eyes, but he contented himself with having his hands on his best friend’s body, feeling Starsky relax a little with his ministrations. 

"Everything’s still so close to the surface." Hutch massaged a particularly tight knot just below Starsky’s scapula, the jut of his vertebrae sharp even through the thick terry cloth. "This’d be a lot more effective without the robe," he commented blandly, not wanting to push Starsky somewhere he might not want to go. Starsky was almost leaning against him, the former rigidity of his muscles giving way to a boneless sprawl. 

Without a word, Starsky shrugged the robe down around his arms so his upper body was exposed.

Rubbing his fingers in ever widening circles, Hutch explored his friend’s back. It wasn’t as if he’d never seen it before. Right after Starsky’s discharge form the hospital, he’d had to help him with everything from dressing changes to putting on clothes. Now, he let his hands roam lovingly over the scarred skin. Hutch gently stroked feather light touches over a bullet scar high up on the left side--a vivid reminder of an aborted late night Italian dinner gone horribly wrong. Below it and more towards the center was the mark of the only one of Gunther’s slugs that passed through. The rest had imbedded themselves in Starsky’s internal organs, to be removed by skilled doctors. Thus, Starsky’s chest was criss-crossed with the evidence of multiple surgeries. Sliding his hand over the bony prominence of Starsky’s shoulder, Hutch ran a light thumb along the ridge of his collarbone, encountering the puckered scar over his right lung. Starsky’s sharp, shuddery intake of breath froze his hand, leaving it flat over his sternum, the beating heart thudding against his palm.

"Did that hurt?" Hutch asked anxiously.

"No." Starsky was slumped against Hutch’s chest by then, every one of his breaths echoed by Hutch’s own. "It’s just…tingles, almost ticklish. Keep going," he said lazily, resting his head on Hutch's shoulder. 

Hutch raised his knees up on either side of Starsky, pulling his partner even more securely into the safe cocoon before letting his dominant hand travel down Starsky’s chest to his flat belly. He tangled his fingers in the coarse, curly hair covering Starsky’s chest, following the long lines made by the surgeons' scalpels, trying to heal the hurts with his loving touch.

The long hospitalization had pared down his weight, and Starsky had yet to gain all of it back. Physical therapy had built up his upper body strength, but the bones still jutted too prominently through his skin. The pattern of ribs and interspaced muscle was like a fascinating tactile sculpture that Hutch lingered over, threading his fingers along the intercostal spaces until he held his partner’s torso in his two hands, resting his chin on Starsky’s shoulder. Hutch savored the moment with his breath warm on Starsky’s neck, the embodiment of countless late night wet dreams.

Hutch drew his fingernails lightly over the other man’s nipples, feeling rather than seeing the response. Starsky wasn’t protesting this increasingly sexual massage, in fact, he he seemed to be encouraging it, arching as Hutch’s questing fingers traced his belly button, teasing at the fine line of hair that dwindled down to nothing just above his groin.

"Have you ever done it with a guy, Hutch?" Starsky asked when they’d lain, intertwined for more than five minutes.

"Yeah." Hutch wasn’t surprised at the question, but he’d thought Starsky had fallen asleep. "A couple times."

"How was it?"

"Good--just different." He smiled into Starsky’s dark curls, knowing the gods were rewarding him for his patience. He didn’t even need to bring up the subject!

"But you liked it?" Starsky persisted, watching the blond man’s fingers begin to move down his belly again, to cup ever so carefully around his penis.

"Yah, I did-most of the time girls are better, but not always." Hutch’s own cock was growing, tenting the sweatpants he wore, pushing against Starsky’s coccyx. _He had to be feeling that._ Hutch continued to delicately stroke the swelling length in his hand, lightly brushing the scrotum with the back of his hand. 

Starsky gasped, this time in obvious arousal.

"W-where are we going here?" he finally managed to get his mouth to form words while Hutch’s magic fingers played his organ like a flute. He let out a long low moan as every fiber in his being began to sing in accompaniment to Hutch’s internal music.

"Where ever you want it to go," Hutch answered, wrapping his whole hand around the now red, engorged penis and beginning to pump rhythmically. Starsky’s pelvis raised up in time to the beat, then rocking back down against Hutch’s aching erection with a jolt that sent sky rockets through Hutch’s body.

Panting, Starsky let his arms hang down, following the long lean curve of Hutch’s thigh to the underside of his leg. Tugging, he as able to pull the elastic waistband of Hutch’s pants down far enough to reveal some thigh. He couldn’t quite reach his partner’s groin from his angle, but he contented himself with playing with the soft hairs on the underside of Hutch’s right leg. Hutch’s answering throaty chuff of laughter rumbled through Starsky’s backbone like a tuning fork.

Always in sync with one another, they were now truly in harmony, each playing their part in a perfect duet of mutual arousal.

"Keep going, keep going." Starsky didn’t let his brain connect to what was going on with his body. He just wanted to feel good, not analyze the process along the way. His groin was throbbing like a heartbeat, filling Hutch’s hand to overflowing, filling his body with sensations coming too fast and too explosive to comprehend. Squeezing shut his eyes, Starsky dropped any inhibitions he had left, the orgasm ripping through him like a lightening storm burning away the anger, pain and sadness. He clamped his hands over Hutch’s wrist so they’d remain in position until his penis shrunk down.

"Liked that, did you?" Hutch touched his lips to Starsky’s knobby shoulder bone, kissing it with infinite care.

"N-not bad for a first try," Starsky attempted a straight face, but the giggles erupted from his belly until he was weak with laughter. He squirmed around, still trapped between Hutch’s knees, running hands up the exposed thigh where he’d pulled the sweat pants partially down. Palms flat, he slid them under the edge of the U. of Minn. sweatshirt, skimming Hutch’s pecs, thumbs rolling his nipples till they hardened. "You still cold?"

"Haven’t been for a long time, Starsk." Hutch grinned in return, yanking up the shirt and pulling if off in one fluid motion.

"I got so much hair here, your skin feels so smooth and clean," Starsky observed, his own hands doing a little exploration. "And no scars."

"We’ve all got scars, Starsk. Some just don’t show." Hutch scooped up his left hand, planting a kiss on the palm, then closing his fingers around it.

"S-some people don’t want to see the scars." Starsky let the kiss sink into his soul.

"Who?"

"I dunno--people," Starsky retreated again, attempting to pull the tangled robe around his neck.

"Have you had sex since…?"

"No."

"Starsky!" Hutch exploded, "Not with Meredith? Anyone?"

"It didn’t come up," Starsky defended, trying to belt the robe around his waist while still sitting down.

"It came up today." Hutch stretched out one long leg, resting it across his partner’s thighs, just brushing his ankle against the aforementioned organ. He just couldn’t resist the pun.

"That’s not what I meant." Starsky ducked his head, but the smile was back. He playfully slapped the terry cloth belt on Hutch’s leg. "Pull your pants all the way up or take ‘em off. Look like you can’t decide."

"I was waiting for you to." Hutch watched him intently, still afraid that the earlier success was a fluke.

Tipping his head up, Starsky awarded him with a dazzling David Starsky patented special, all impish humor and tease. "You want ‘em all the way down?" He dipped his fingers under the gray pants, giving a push until Hutch’s plumbing bounced free. An extra flip and the material slid off onto the carpet.

"What do we have here?" Starsky feigned surprise, "Somebody wants to come out and play."

"Little Ken’s feeling frisky."

"Little Ken’s not so little." Starsky admired the thick, tumescent specimen of manhood standing between Hutch’s legs. Although his was of a similar length, Hutch’s was rounder, heavier and right now, dark red, the long blue veins pulsing with blood.

Dropping off the sofa, Starsky knelt down, a wild, reckless look in his dark blue eyes. Hutch shifted around so he still had his knees on either side of the smaller man, with Starsky roughly level to his groin. 

Leaning forward, Starsky tasted the tip of Hutch’s cock with his tongue, a little snaky lick, before taking the whole head in his mouth like eating a hot dog. It was warm and muscular against his lips, alive and pulsing in time to his heart. Using his tongue, he slowly licked the full length, applying just a hint of teeth, causing Hutch to buck his pelvis forward. The whole penis slid past Starsky’s lips, the head bumping on the back of his throat. Now it felt huge, stretching his lips to their limit, almost but not quite choking. It wasn’t at all unpleasant, just different. Repressing the urge to gag, Starsky sucked, hollowing his cheeks to apply steady suction. It was a challenge to remember every mind-blowing thing orally talented women had done to him while experimenting with what he thought Hutch would like.

Hutch liked all of it. The pressure of Starsky’s mouth on his cock was like a sweet torture. He locked his hands around the back of Starsky’s head, fingers tangling in his chocolate curls, not pushing, but not allowing him to pull away either. His breath was coming in quick puffs as the buzzing that had started in his groin increased, traveling everywhere in his body until he was vibrating like a plucked guitar string. The climax came with a reflexive pelvic rock that overbalanced Starsky onto his butt, Hutch’s penis coming out with an audible pop.

"Oh, God," Hutch whispered. "You must be a fast learner."

"That isn’t what you used to say in the Academy." Starsky leaned his back on the coffee table, his legs spread full length so that his feet hid under the edge of the sofa.

"That was traffic violations," Hutch corrected weakly. "You still haven’t learned them." He ran a bare foot up Starsky’s leg, tapping gently on his knee when the other man’s focus had obviously turned inward again. "What’er you thinking?"

"I dunno. That some days are harder’n others, I guess." He shrugged, "And some days turn around in a way I never expected."

"I honestly didn't plan this, Starsk."

"But you’ve wanted to, huh?"

"Yeah. You knew?"

"I knew. I just didn’t know what I felt about it."

"And now?"

"What was it you said? Most of the time girls are better, but not always."

"I said that?" Hutch realized he’d been holding his breath waiting for the answer and chuckled. "There’s never been anything better than this time."

"Never?" Starsky teased, enjoying the warmth of Hutch’s foot stroking the underside of his knee.

"Don’t get swelled up." Hutch walked his toes up the inside of Starsky’s thigh, pleased that his actions were causing an obvious effect. Starsky’s flaccid penis was raising to half-mast just with the tickling. "Y’okay?"

"You mean does sex fix everything?" Starsky grabbed the thrusting foot, pushing it off.

Backing off, Hutch pulled his sweatpants on, sensing Starsky’s fragile calm had shattered for some inexplicable reason. "You know I didn’t mean that."

"I think what…kinda freaked me out…was seeing what it looked from this side." Starsky abruptly stood, skirting the coffee table to stare unseeing out the window. 

Rain streaked the glass, the dark night causing a mirror effect, so Hutch could see a distorted image of Starsky’s face without moving from the couch. 

"And that she…a little girl, had the courage to do it and I didn’t."

"Starsky…" Hutch started.

"I tried the pills first, but I was so damn cold and my hands were shaking. I couldn’t get the damned child proof cap off the bottle and they spilled all over." It was said all in one long drawn out breath, like he had a deadline to finish the sentence. "I was just so cold, I couldn’t get warm so I sat there a long time, y’know?" It was the first time he’d acknowledged Hutch’s presence in several minutes. His voice was flat, rampant emotions held tightly in check so they didn’t spill out and envelop him till he couldn’t breath. "I guess I was waiting for the right time. Then I got my gun, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. Just holdin’ it to my head. It felt so cold I thought maybe it froze in my hand and that was why I couldn’t…"

Hutch didn’t move, rooted to the couch, uncertain what was expected of him.

Starsky had never spoken of that night. Never given any explanation of why he’d wanted to take such drastic measure or what had ultimately stopped him. Hutch, respecting his privacy, hadn’t pushed, never expecting it to come out in such an unanticipated rush of post coital confession.

"I was in such a strange place, Hutch…half out of this world into someplace else. And I didn’t want to stay."

"Why, Starsk?"

"I dunno. I really can’t remember." He turned, a tired half smile on his face, the robe hanging open. There was no self-conscious modesty in front of his best friend. "Everything just hurt so much."

"Then what made you want to stay?"

"You. I could hear your voice."

It was like something heavy had been lifted off him, letting him think again. _Don’t let Starsky drift away!_

"Then listen to me now and come away from that window, tie your robed closed and drink something hot before you catch your death," Hutch scolded with mock severity, his throat tight with tears he couldn’t shed. He remembered the stark terror he’d tried to hide seeing Starsky’s fingers clamped around the Berretta’s trigger like it was an anchor and he was drowning.

"Think you can make me?" Starsky challenged, a hint of defiance coloring his voice. 

It could have been just a teasing game, but belatedly Hutch recognized the words. Starsky was replaying their dialogue from that night, dredging up the memories. What was his line? His mind went blank, shocked into nothingness.

"I can’t make you do anything." He stood, speaking slowly, as frightened as he’d been all those months ago. There was something desperate in Starsky’s face, as if he’d fallen back into that strange place again. "It has to be your decision. Just listen to my voice and come back here where people care about you."

"What if I can’t find the way?"

"There’ll always be a place for you here. Just keep yourself open and listen."

"I heard you, Hutch." Starsky broke the eerie spell. "I always listen to you." His deep blue eyes locked onto Hutch’s sky blue ones, but he made no move forward. 

Hutch finally bridged the gap, first belting the robe closed before encompassing Starsky in his arms, keeping the demons at bay. "You just never do what I say."

"It isn’t sex that makes it all better, it’s havin’ a place to be." Starsky’s words were muffled, his breath making little patches of warmth on the blond man’s chest and Hutch realized how chilly he was without a shirt on.

"Someplace warm and dry." Hutch drew him down on the couch again, the cushions still retaining some heat from their earlier positions.

"And maybe pizza?" Starsky pulled the black and red crocheted afghan off the sofa back, swirling in around them both. "Think they’ll deliver if the rain lets up?"

"I think you’re incorrigible." Hutch thanked again the fates that put them both on Earth at the same time, in the same hemisphere, the same city and then made it rain.

 

fin

 

 

1


End file.
